


Trance

by Merit



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Betrayal, Dark, Future Fic, Gen, ToT: Monster Mash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-28 04:20:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8431624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merit/pseuds/Merit
Summary: Peter didn't think many people read his reports these days. This one would be different.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ariadnes_string](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariadnes_string/gifts).



Nightingale looked even younger in the dim twilight.

Peter sighed deeply and slowly walked to the chair by Nightingale's bed. He sat heavily, chair rocking, losing focus for a moment as the almost overwhelming exhaustion took over him. Then he shook his head and took out his latest tablet. He dialed his pass code and soon Nightingale's cheekbones are harshly illuminated.

He filled in the report, details sparse. There were probably less than a dozen people authorised to read his reports. He thought only one or two read a report occasionally, just to check that he was still filling in his reports, make sure he hadn't disappeared.

Technically he was still part of the police. And he thought that this report, out of the hundreds he had filed, would be read.

There was a flush to Nightingale's cheeks, lips parted as if he was just about to take a deep breath and he almost looked like he might wake up.

Nightingale had been asleep almost five years.

After the report was finished, Peter sat, staring at nothing in particular, staring at the light hitting Nightingale's hair. Molly cut it carefully every month. She cautiously sat him upright, a mountain on pillows behind him. It was crooked at the back and Peter was sure as soon as Nightingale woke up, he would demand a proper haircut.\

The sun was setting.

Every grey strand had faded out of Nightingale's hair as time forgot him. Lines had smoothed out at the corner of his eyes. He looked like a strong, vital man. Even if Peter's mum would have sniffed and considered him a bit thin.

She though Peter was too thin these days. Thought Peter should visit more. Thought Peter should answer his phone more.

Nightingale hadn't stopped growing younger.

Was it another thing Lesley intended, Peter thought, or was just something that _happened_.

 

* * *

 

Lesley was incandescent as she smiled. The horror of her face forgotten, her full cheeks youthful. She laughed.

“He said it wasn't possible, Peter,” she said, voice quieter than the bright grin on her face would have suggested. She ignored Nightingale. She walked closer. To his left, Nightingale tensed.

The sun was high in the sky, bright on Lesley's blonde hair. She was almost, almost the bright, young thing Peter had first met, years ago.

Her eyes betrayed her.

“It shouldn't be possible,” Nightingale said, against the light of Lesley's grin, his face shadowed. “Some thing aren't worth it,” he said heavily, a note of finality as he narrowed his eyes, hand clenching.

Lesley's face screwed up, suddenly ugly. “How would you really know?” She asked, then shook her head. “He said you would try this. Try to make me feel guilty.”

Nightingale said nothing. Dark lines etched in his face as he watched Lesley loom forward.

“He told me about the horrors you saw. The horrors that were created. The horrors that you locked up despite the sacrifices of _hundreds_ ,” Lesley said. She tilted her head, so they could see the perfect line of her jaw. “You ignored it all, ignored the countless horrors as you stayed locked up in Folly.”

“Lesley,” Peter said and she turned to him. They eyes met, hers wild and brave, and Peter didn't know what she saw in his, but it didn't dampen her resolve. She turned back to Nightingale.

“I thought this was all nonsense,” Lesley said. “Nothing good could come of this.”

And then light and air exploded.

When Peter opened his eyes, the sun was a red shadow at the horizon and Nightingale sprawled out next to him. Lesley had vanished. Even her footprints had been wiped clean from the earth.

And Nightingale continued to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Six months into Nightingale's sleep, Lesley's face fell off.

Just collapsed. Skin separating from muscle, bone twisting, eyes jutting out. She screamed and it was lost in a rush of blood gushing out of her mouth.

She survived.

Peter found out through Beverley who found out through -

“Stop it, Peter,” Beverley said, leaning back into her chair and giving Peter a filthy look, “I'm not going to tell you.” She leaned back into her chair, giving the sparse crowd a listless look. Her shoulders were hunched and she had barely touched her tea.

Peter hissed through his teeth. Then nodded. “I understand,” Peter said. He still didn't know if he just wanted to hug her. Bring her to justice. Both, maybe.

Beverley tensed for a moment before shrugging carefully. She picked up a spoon and carefully stirred her rapidly cooling tea. “She's fine,” she said, paused. “Or well as anyone can be in her condition. Apparently this hasn't stopped her wanting - ”

“Her old life back,” Peter breathed.

Beverley was very still. “No,” she said slowly. “I don't think she wants that anymore. Not now.”

Peter was silent.

“She's never coming back,” Beverley murmured. “Not to the Folly. Not to the police. She hardly has a place on my side either,” Beverley said. “Tyburn doesn't like public spectacles and she literally lost her face in front of dozens of people.”

He breathed out slowly. “I never understood her.”

“No,” Beverley said, without judgment.

 

* * *

 

He caught a glimpse of her in a shop window. Eyes bright, she had obviously already spotted him, lips drawn back into an impossible smile.

Peter turned and Lesley was there, smiling, rocking back on her heels like they were bloody constables.

“Hey Peter,” she said, the rush of the peak hour crowd an insurance against a hundred, a thousand actions. He tensed nonetheless, eyes darting around the crowd, seeking _him_.

Lesley sighed heavily and gave him an unimpressed look.

“You still don't fear me, do you?” She said, almost conversationally. She laughed, a new jaw, a new smile, the same old eyes. “After what I did...” she said lightly, reaching for him.

He stepped back.

“Lesley,” he said warningly and she crossed her arms at him.

“After what I did to poor Nightingale,” she said, “Hasn't it been three years? Almost four? And the sleeping beauty slept for a hundred years,” she added mockingly.

Peter swallowed. He had gone over what he would say to her, what he would do, everything and anything and when he was faced with her. He wasn't sure what to do.

“I never saw it coming,” Peter said. “Never.”

Lesley shrugged. “Never? What was I supposed to do?” She smiled a pretty smile. “To remain like that?”

Peter was silent.

“What was he really teaching you, Peter?” Lesley said, pressing forward, something new and dangerous in her eyes. “He spoon feeding you,” she spat, “Like a child!”

She turned. He could almost believe she was vulnerable. He had fallen for her face in the past.

“Goodbye, Peter,” she said and then was lost, as the crowd swept around her.

 

* * *

 

The creature lumbered forward, awkwardly standing on two feet. It shifted, body stretching, hands switching to paws. It stood on four legs, touching the ground restlessly, then reared back. It howled at the night sky, cloud and pollution hiding all the stars. The howl was still ringing in Peter's ears as it lunged forward, past awkwardness forgotten.

It looked like a dog.

If you had twisted it, spliced a human spine, a human face and tried to meld the two together.

It had blood on its mouth.

There were smudges in the distance. Maybe it was just rubbish, thrown into the Thames and then washed up. But Peter could have sworn he saw one the shapes move. But they hadn't moved for a while, now.

He didn't have time.

It was faster than him.

Peter breathed out heavily as he was flung several feet into air and then gravity forced him down, hard, on the ground. He winced at the glass and he didn't know want to know what scraped his head. It howled again and there were sirens in the distance, which only seemed to fuel the creature.

He got to his feet, clutching his ribs, forms and words springing to his mind. When the creature next moved, he was faster, light and fire stretching out in front of him, engulfing the creature.

It screeched. Overwhelming the sirens. Peter staggered back, clutching his ears, as the creature burned and wailed.

Then it was over. And there was only dull red flames.

The Thames surged forward and the fire died. Peter saluted the water but when he approached the edge, there were only fading ripples reaching deeper into the river.

  

* * *

 

Tyburn had silver on her brows like a coronet. She raised an eyebrow curiously when Peter approached her during one the few moments she hadn't been crowded by hangers on. He settled by her, raising his cup to her. No obligation of course. These sort of meetings between London's magic folk were choreographed to extreme.

“Good party,” he offered and Tyburn's lips twitched.

“It had better be,” Tyburn said. “Weeks and months of dragging some of the most disagreeable people together. But they're here,” she said, shaking her head. “They're here.”

Peter watched the crowd for several moments. There were a few lifelong feuds here, enmity stretching back to when London was still ransacked by fire and plague.

“She can't keep on doing this,” Tyburn said, swirling her red wine, peering into its depths.

Peter grimaced. But he had approached her. He knew what she was going to say.

“It has to come to an end,” Peter said. He had spent hours washing the ash out of his skin, his clothes.

Tyburn looked over at him. There was something fathomless in her eyes.

“And what do propose, Peter Grant?”


End file.
